Half Alive
by UndergroundValentine
Summary: Whites.  Pupils.  And a ring.  A simple ring where the iris should be.  But there is no iris.  Just a vague, translucent grey ring and white. -Saulbert. Rated M for violence, language, ideologically sensitive material-
1. Prologue

Hey guys. This is a new fic based on the Better Than I Know Myself video with a bit of a sci-fi twist to it. Hope you like it. :)

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><p><strong>[Prologue]<strong>

"Will he make it, do you think?" The voice is soft, hushed, fearful in the otherwise desolate silence of the room. A hulk of a man in a soft linen white coat holds a glass clipboard with a clear sheet held to its front, the text black and bold against its transparent support.

A moment is taken, whether to add tension or maybe the man isn't sure how to find his words. At any rate a long breath is expelled and he turns to the woman who spoke to him, a woman well into her years with soft brown hair. She's pretty, and he can see the obvious resembles between her and the individual lying in the bed, the individual in question.

"I don't know," he tells her, setting the clipboard down on the table at the foot of the bed. White walls surround them and an open glass window facing the west, letting in warm afternoon light. It casts a glow on the tall, broad shouldered man tucked under a cotton blanket. He takes a glance towards his patient, not wanting to meet the mother's eyes. "I honestly don't. His vitals are good. His brain activity is normal. He just… he won't wake up."

The mother glances towards her son, a young man of his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He looks like he's fresh out of college, almost, with dark hair and pale skin. She knows if his eyes were open they'd be the most beautiful sparkling blue to ever grace the spectrum of color. "Is there anything we can do?" She asks. She's hopeful. She has to be. Her son has been like this for the last two weeks, for no reason at all. She just came home one day and found him on the floor, out cold and unresponsive.

The doctor is silent. He listens to her soft breathing and his own steady heartbeat, watching the boy with the same integrity that she is. They're both thinking the same thing, though he doesn't want to admit that to her. He wants to give her as much to hold onto as possible, but he's just not sure. The boy's case is something he's never seen, and when he looks up the mother, staring into her mismatched eyes, he frowns.

"Wait. See if he'll wake up."

Leila Lambert stares back at the doctor, staring between a blue eye and a green eye. Perhaps once, long ago, such a thing might have been strange. For people to have mismatched eyes. But it's not so anymore. Now, well, now there's a whole psychological reasoning behind it—truly. It's not chemical or hereditary. It's psychosis. It's, practically, soul related.

Turning her gaze from the doctor, she stares back at her eldest son. Her little angel, all grown up into a beautiful and lavish young man. A man with talent and promise, and he looks like he's merely sleeping in the bed, head tilted slightly to the left. Freckled lips and delicate almond shaped eyes with slight downward curves on the insides. Such a unique boy, and Leila allows a smile despite fearing that her son may never wake up, never recover.

But that's just it. What is there to recover from?

Slowly, Leila crosses to her son, holding her coat tight over her arm. She stands by the side of his bed, staring down on his pale face and her chest tightens with a sort of grief. He's not gone, for he's right in front of her and still very much alive. But she knows he's lost. And right now, he's not coming back.

Reaching out, she touches her boy's cheek with her finger tips, caressing his skin. A smile pulls at her lips again as she cups his face, tracing circles with her thumb. She holds her hand there, still and warm against his cheek before lifting it a little, pressing the pad of her thumb to the thin membrane of his left eyelid. Slowly, she eases it up, revealing his eye.

Whites. Pupils. And a ring. A simple ring where the iris should be. But there is no iris. Just a vague, translucent grey ring and white.


	2. One

**[One]**

**Light**

He glances out of the blinds that hang over his windows, staring out at sunlight and the city streets. Shadows are cast from trees and buildings as cars roll by, drivers passing without a glance in his direction. His fingers slip from the plastic strips and he steps away from the window, glancing around the small room with a pleased smile.

It's a beautiful day today. His room is warm comforting with a bookshelf nailed to the wall above his bed. There's a couch just next to it with a coffee table, assorted books and journals lying about on its smooth, wooden surface. There's a tea pot sitting on top of a tiny little stove in the corner of the room, an equally small refrigerator beside it. His teacup sits on top of the fridge and he smiles to himself again.

Such a beautiful day, he thinks to himself as he crosses to the stove. The teapot is filled with fresh water from earlier this morning and he flicks the switch on the small stove. The glass plate of the stove top glows a soft red beneath the teapot, and he waits patiently for the water to come to a boil as he rifles through a basket containing dozens of types of tea bags. He plucks one from the bottom, tearing the package before letting the tea bag rest at the bottom of his cup, the string wound around the handle.

The teapot whistles quietly and he lifts it from the stove, pouring steaming water into his cup before setting it back down on the stove. He flicks the switch to turn it off before taking his teacup into hand, returning to the opposite side of the room where the couch and his books are. He sets the cup down onto the coffee table before plopping down into the cushions, his feet kicked up on the arm.

He grabs at an open journal on the table, pulling the pen from the binding before flipping to a clean page. On days like this, beautiful days, he's almost always inspired to write. Sometimes he writes little stories, adventures out in the open wild. Sometimes he writes letters to no one at all. Other times he writes song lyrics and poems. Those he writes the most, though. He's not sure why, but he does.

Pressing the tip of the pen to his paper, he begins to write. Simple yet elegant scrawl form letters and words and he hums softly to himself as his hand pours the lyrics of another song from his heart and mouth. He watches the swirls and curves of his handwriting, softly singing the words as they're written, like his mouth and hand are connected to one another.

He continues to sing and write, only stopping for brief moments to drink his tea from time to time or to glance out the windows again at the beautiful view of the city and the mountains in the background. There's a quiet peace in the room, and he reaches over to grab a small, thin, metallic remote from the coffee table, pressing a large green button. Instantly, soft instrumental music plays from the speakers built into the walls on either side of the massive mirror.

He listens to the intricate beauty as he scribbles a few last words before looking up towards the mirror. It covers the entirety of the opposite wall, the sunlight bouncing back at him through it. He stares at his own reflection; disheveled but pleasing dark brown hair with soft blond tips. A comfortably loose white cap-sleeved shirt with a green knit sweater over it, pulled open at the front. Well-worn and comfortable black jeans and his white socks.

He lifts his gaze to his face. A decent tan complexion, smooth cheeks and a strong jaw line. He smiles a little, watching his freckled lips pull wide, the dimples of his cheeks sinking in a little. He's not vain, but he does appreciate his own beauty. Then again, he appreciates beauty in all circumstances and forms. His own is just another mark added to the list.

He meets his own eyes, staring into deep, ocean blue irises. It's never really been a pressing thought for him, but he has wondered on occasion how his eyes are so electrifyingly blue. He always assumed that they'd be a little duller, a little darker. But no. They're bright. Crisp. Like the waters of some vast, deep, clean and sunlit ocean in the middle of nowhere. He's seen pictures of such oceans and that's the closest comparison.

He blinks, and those blue eyes are gone, replaced by his own face, slightly paler, slightly darker hair, and burning gold eyes. He shivers and drinks his tea again. It's a beautiful day on his side.


	3. Two

**[Two]**

Pushing his blond hair from his face, Tommy saunters across the open bar area towards a thin brunette sipping from a pint of beer. His jeans cling in the right places and his jacket hangs loosely off of his shoulders as he takes up the seat next to his friend, ordering the same drink before pulling out his wallet.

The brunette doesn't look at him, but Tommy isn't bothered by this. He takes his drink into hand and gulps a hearty amount from it, nearly draining it before setting it back down on the bar counter. He sighs heavily, exhaustion pulling his eyes half-shut before he rubs them some, uncaring that he's smudging his already-ruined makeup. He's constantly reminded how much he hates his job, but he knows it pays well and that's all that matters.

Beside him, Drake finishes his beer, setting it down on the metal and class counter next to Tommy's before letting out a long and heavy breath. Tommy watches as the brunette stares at his chipped and peeling finger nail polish, the black scraping away to show paint-lined and worn cuticles. Drake looks as exhausted as Tommy feels and he claps a gentle hand on the brunette's shoulder, earning as small but appreciative smile.

"Long day," Tommy comments, letting his hand slide from Drake's shoulder so he may finish his beer. The bartender comes back and refills them without a word or a glance to either of them, and Drake nods slowly. His brown hair is cropped short and there's a line of stubble that's gracing his jaw line. Tommy's catches a glimpse of Drake's tired eyes, one a soft blue and the other a dull, murky silver color.

"Very long," Drake agrees, his voice quiet and small. Tommy glances at him before nodding once to the bartender, pulling his second drink into hand. He lets it sit there with his hand curled around it, staring at the amber liquid inside.

"Have you heard?" Tommy mumbles quietly, unsure if Drake knows of the situation. He got a call from a good friend of his with some unsettling news, news that left his stomach in knots and his heart palpitating with worry.

"Heard what?" Drake remarks, taking a large drink of his beer, staring blankly across the bar. Cool metal stools lined with soft black padding circled around glass and silver tables. Overhead energy-safe lights and a vents letting in cool, sweet oxygen. There's a dance floor below them, the lights washing up along the walls and the music pulsing beneath the floors.

"Adam's in a coma." Tommy's voice is clipped, short, and he chokes on the last word. Next to him, Drake stops in mid raise, his glass slightly tipped towards his lips, mouth open and eyes blank before he sets it back down, risking a glance in Tommy's direction. "I heard from Monte, who found out from Adam's mom."

"You're kidding… what happened?" Drake asks, his tone sharp and desperate. Tommy sighs.

"We don't know. All we do know is he's in a coma and he won't wake. Otherwise, there's nothing wrong with him. He's completely fine." Drake frowns deeply and Tommy takes a much needed swig of his beer, his hands trembling and tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Adam has been his best friend for years and now he was sitting in a hospital being fed through a tube in his arm. And not a damn person knew why.

"Fuck," Drake hisses, looking down at the counter again. His shoulders are hunched a little now and he looks utterly defeated. Tommy can't imagine the thoughts racing in Drake's head, to know that his ex-boyfriend and long time friend was dead to the world. "H-how long?"

"Two weeks today." Drake's voice falters and his eyes are pained. Tommy takes another drink. "I'm sorry, I thought you might have known already."

"No… no one tells me anything anymore." Drake bites, his knuckles stretched tight as he grips his pint glass. Tommy reaches over and rests a hand on his wrist.

"It's gonna be okay—"

"I'll believe that when someone tells me he's awake."

"He'll wake, I know he will," Tommy murmurs and Drake scoffs, shaking off his hand to swallow the last of his beer.


	4. Three

**[Three]**

**Dark**

Plush leather cushions him, his painted nails tapping softly against the arm of the chair. The walls are a deep, moody grey, the furniture made of either leather or metal. Skull heads line the walls and bookshelves, a sculpture of metal spikes, enlarged chess pieces and books with dark leather bindings. There's a fake leave-less tree sculpture in the corner, nestled away from everything else. There's a small glass table, a metal chair, a tiny metal stove and a miniature fridge.

His eyes are locked on his reflection on the mirror, which takes up the entirety of the wall opposite from where he's sitting. His room is small, dark and cold, with a single window to his left. The drapes are drawn shut, letting in on a little light through the cracks. It's early enough in the day that he can see everything without having to turn on any lights or even pull those Godforsaken curtains open.

He looks away from himself, staring across the room. The books are haphazardly shoved on the shelves, there's a bowl of aged fruit sitting on top of the fridge, and bottles upon bottle of alcohol are on the coffee table and floor. Some are empty, some are not. There's a glass tumbler next to a half-empty bottle in front of him, and he stares at it for a while. He's not sure why he attempts to debate whether or not he wants a drink, because it's habit for him to reach for it, pour himself a hearty drink and sit in his chair, downing several at once.

Groaning quietly, he stares at the empty tumbler in his hands, seeing the tiniest drop of alcohol left in the bottom. He tilts the glass, watching the bead roll down, clinging to the edge before letting go, splashing on the hardwood floor. He pours himself another, swallowing his drink in two gulps before repeating the process; watching that tiny little lonely bead roll and fall.

He squeezes the glass, his grip tightening before he snarls and chucks it across the room. It shatters against the wall on impact, glass raining down onto the floor around the fake tree. Its bony black limbs cast shadows with what little light there is across the floor and he growls to himself before standing from his chair. His boots make heavy thuds as he paces the floor, his eye continuing to return to the glass mirror.

It takes a moment for his reflection to fade away before he stares into a room completely unlike his own. There's sunlight. There's organization and a homey sort of feel, yet all he feels inside is disgust for this perfect, happy little room. In it is a man with his face and his body. But unlike the man in the other room, his own hair is neatly arranged, gelled up in an aesthetically pleasing wave, glossy and black. His eyebrows are thick and neat, trimmed to perfection. His complexion is pale, ghostly almost, nails painted and fingers adorned in rings.

Unlike his copy in the sunshine room, his eyes are gold.

He snarls at his twin, clawing at the glass surface of the mirror that separates their rooms. The blue-eyed man looks up from his journal and his tea, grimacing a little at the sight of him. His snarls grows deeper and he steps back from the mirror as his twin stands slowly, shrugging a little as if to say "What?"

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know why he feels such burning rage for his counterpart, but he does and that's all he's ever known to feel. Complete, consuming hatred. And something else, but he'd never admit to it, even if he's almost certain his twin has seen it before.

He grabs a bottle of alcohol, gulping straight from it, watching those blue eyes sadden and his twin's head shake in disappointment. His insides twist as he gathers alcohol in his mouth before spraying it across the mirror over where he can see his twin's face. There's a moment where they both watch the liquid collect and roll down in streaks, and he stares with trembling hands as his other self sighs and looks away.


	5. Four

**[Four]**

Balance, noun. The state of even distribution of weight or amount; steadiness, as of the body; the remainder.

There are old proverbs, sayings, detailing that balance is utterly essential. That balance in any and every regard is the key to success, happiness, and tranquility. Balance is the act of holding, keeping everything oppositional in place. Balance is even in ancient scripture, folk tales and legends of Gods defeating demons, justice prevailing over crime, good versus evil, black and white, the yinyang. Similar, if not equal, balance still lives within and around us today; the two halves of a day, with the sunlight and the moon; the changing of seasons and the order of time, space, and how everything happens as it is meant to.

Balance not only lives within our bodies—keeping our internal organ system functioning as it should—but within our psychology as well. Nestled within our brains, living amongst the left and right halves and the central nervous system, there is balance. This balance is connected to something even deeper within us. Psychological balance is tightly twined with the balance of our soul.

Soul, noun. The spiritual part of a human being; the essential part; person.

The human soul has always been regarded as a force to be reckoned with. The soul was considered the center of existence, the center of being. The knowledge of the existence of the soul was, perhaps, a debatable topic. Even the theory of the existence was questioned. Society once wondered whether such a transparent, deeply buried source of strength, will, and passion could ever be detected. Over time, the drive to understand was lost, the desire for answers forgotten amongst growing technology and warfare.

In 2087, Dr. Alan T. Boulegard invested in a study of the human soul, of whether or not it existed and how, if it did, was connected to an individual. In 2099, Boulegard, after years of research and experimentation, found his answer.

"The human soul," he writes, "does, indeed, exist. After twelve exhausting, exhilarating, and sometimes humiliating years, I have found the connection. The human soul is not something you can see, touch, interact with or hope to manifest. The human soul is everything that makes a person an individual. It is everything that makes a person unique compared to the next.

"Some might go as far as to say the human soul is nothing but man's personality. This is entirely untrue. I have witnessed it myself.

"During my study, I took up a random group of willing subjects, men, women, and children, even, to aid me in my research. Each one of them had varying eye colors—browns, hazels, greens, blues, greys. They were all of varying ages, the youngest being six and the eldest being ninety-seven years old.

"I began my research by becoming acquainted with each subject, learning of their background, heritage, current status of living and employment. Six of the subjects, excluding those aged between six and sixteen, were well paid employees of various companies and industries. Seven subjects, excluding those aged between six and sixteen, were unemployed. Three subjects were retired, and the five remaining subjects were enrolled in school.

"During the initial "get-to-know", so to speak, I continued my findings with the eldest subject. A woman, ninety-seven years old, with soft green eyes and fluffy white hair. She had a plump sort of figure and a well-aged face. She had worked and served during the war of Great Britain and Japan as a nurse. She told me of her late husband, a general of the war, of their four children and six grandchildren. She told me of her younger sister and her three children, and how their families continued to live together in a large white home on an old plantation in Britain.

"I asked her a series of questions to aid me, essentially, in picking apart her psyche. Questions regarding trauma, her childhood, her husband and how she felt about the war, crime, devastation in foreign countries, homosexuality and poverty. For the longest time, there was nothing. Nothing but my questions and her answers, all of which were reasonable, easy to understand, and very concise with one another. Nothing…

"Then, something I had not anticipated in my wildest dreams, but greatly increased my knowledge and added a whole new branch of research that I needed to study…" Boulegard breaks here, as if still deeply affected by this finding.

"The woman's eyes," Boulegard continues. "Her eyes changed. Just like that. Like the blink of an eye. Gradual, but a blink, from green to brown."


	6. Five

**[Five]**

**Light**

He rifles through the pages of the book in his hands, reading words he's read at least a hundred times over before, yet he still manages to enjoy them each and every day. The pages are worn from his fingertips brushing them aside, the spine is soft and the corners of the cover are exposing their structure. The book, itself, though, is still in rather good condition, and holds up to Adam's large hands.

His eyes scan over the lines, soaking in the text, picturing the scenes in his head. If there's one thing he loves about books, it's the imagery that they give. The poetry in the words and the beautiful pictures in his head make him unconsciously smile as he reads. Sunlight pours through the blinds that cover his windows, and he taps his foot to the beat of the music coming from his stereo.

For a long while, Adam sits and reads his book, tapping the toe of his boot against the arm of the couch, soaking in the sunshine and the warmth coming from his window. At this moment in time, Adam can't find anything else he'd rather be doing…

A knock sounds from behind his mirror and Adam glances towards the glass, seeing his darker twin standing there. There's a malicious grin on his face, eyes lined dark and heavy with kohl as he lifts a bottle of alcohol high into the air before pouring its contents out all over the floor, tongue hanging past lips in a cackle. Adam sighs heavily, shutting his book before looking back up at his counterpart.

He's never been very sure why there are two of them. Why there is a darker part of him separate from his life and books by a sheet of glass that sometimes acts as a mirror. He's never understood why he can see into his counterpart's life or why they hate one another so much. Well, Adam doesn't hate his darker self. He pities him more than anything.

His twin is storming around the room of steel and black, screaming and shouting, tearing pages out of books and spraying alcohol everywhere, but Adam doesn't hear any of it. He hears nothing but the music from his stereo, but he can imagine what his twin is raving about. He really only screams about anger and pain and how can this lighter half be so fucking cheery all the Goddamn time?

Adam sighs quietly, folding his arms over his chest as he watches his twin. There are torn papers, alcohol, furniture turned over and glass on the floor, wet spots on the walls. The papers soak up the spilled drink and the glass shimmers. On his own side, everything is neat and tidy, put away and organized. Adam likes keeping everything in its proper place. Obviously, his twin prefers destruction.

Turning away from the mirror, Adam goes to put his book away on the shelf above his bed, which is also neatly made.


	7. Six

**[Six]**

When Leila steps into her home, she's immediately hit with a wall of nothing. For a moment it's as if there is nothing within her, no reason or will to even take a step forward. She stands as still as possible just beyond the front doorway, coat tucked over her arm just like it had been back at the hospital. A stuttered breath is pulled from within her chest and she slumps forward, shoulders hunched and exhausted, before pushing the door shut.

Stiffly, she hangs her coat up on one of the metal pegs protruding from the wall, letting it rest there beside her husband's. On the other side of his is her eldest son's leather jacket, cold and collecting dust. She reaches up, letting her fingers grace the cool material for no more than a second before she withdraws her hand and turns away from it, unable to look upon it any longer.

She walks down the hallway towards her husband's study and finds him sitting on the couch with a book in his hands. His hair is ruffled and he's wearing the same clothes he'd gone to bed in, but Leila can't find it within herself to worry about that. They've both been rather lazy and unwilling to do much since their son…

"I'm home," she says softly. Eber doesn't look at her for the longest while. His eyes are transfixed on the book in his hands and Leila sighs quietly, pulling up the office chair to the side of the couch before sitting in it. Slowly, Eber sets his book down, and looks up at her with a bright blue eye and a deep green eye.

"How is he?" Eber's voice is soft, quiet and somewhat reserved. Leila glances away, wishing she had good news but knowing she only gives the same.

"He's okay. Unresponsive, but nothing's changed." She tells him, and her husband nods slowly. There are dark and heavy circles under his eyes and Leila extends a hand, gently touching his face before he takes her hand in his.

"Do the doctors know, yet, what's wrong with him?" Leila shakes her head, recalling the brief moment she forcefully opened one of her son's eyes to see that there were no irises to speak of, and a shiver coils along her spine. Just whites, pupils, and that thin, translucent grey ring. Softly, she tells him of this, and Eber is still.

The silence between them isn't discomforting, but it's not exactly the most pleasant of situations, either. Leila's eyes stay on her husband, watching his face as his expression twists to concentration. His eyes are hard, dark with focus before he pulls his hand away from hers, slowly standing from the couch. Leila watches as Eber crosses to the bookshelf on the opposite wall of the study, rummaging through books, journals and papers.

She says nothing, merely observes as Eber flips through books thick, thin, wide and narrow before pulling down one in a green leather cover. He flips through it before stopping about midway through the book. He turns to her, staring at the pages as he walks back before holding the book out to her. She frowns, taking it into her hands, reading the notes therein.

Her eyes scan a few words here and there, before widening some as she glances back up at her husband. "Psychological imbalance?" She suggests, and Eber nods gravely.

"Read the details," he tells her, and she looks back down. Mood swings, erratic changes in behavior, changes in sleeping patterns, eye-color change/loss… She stops and stares at that last part, reading about how severe imbalance can cause eye-color loss, memory loss, split personalities and even cause people to undergo a comatose state. "It all makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Then how come the doctors haven't figured it out, yet?" She asks, looking back up at her husband. She remembers being in school and learning about psychosis, how it affects the body and how an overload of emotions or traumatic experiences can cause a shift in the mind. This was common knowledge taught to all, and yet she and her husband understood it sooner than the paid practitioners.

"Perhaps they're looking for something more complicated? A more medicinal reason as to why our son is unresponsive. Psychosis isn't in their field." Eber explains and Leila nods once, dropping her gaze back to the book in her hands. It all makes sense, yet she can't figure what kind of overload of trauma her son might have endured to suffer the way he has.

"So what do we do?" She asks.

"We take this book with us, explain that we think this is the reason Adam isn't waking up. They'll bring in a psychoanalyst who will no doubt spend extensive hours with us talking about our son in the efforts to piece together a plan to wake him up." Leila frowns a little.

"And if that doesn't work?" Eber pauses, hesitant. Leila doesn't need to pressure him for an answer because she knows he doesn't have one.


	8. Seven

**[Seven]**

He stands beside the bed, back straight, shoulders back, eyes hard and jaw clenched. On the outside, he looks as if he's nothing more than a statue, locked in stone with a penetrating gaze fixed towards the sheets and the pillow. On the inside, however, in his heart, there is a storm, pounding away, tearing him apart little by little.

He'd heard the news from a friend but could scarcely believe it at the time. He doesn't want to believe it, standing here in the silence of the room. Even though the truth is plain as day in front of his eyes, he refuses to believe. H can't believe.

He's lucky that there is a chair beside the bed because his knees fail him, and he collapses half into it. He starts to shake all over, uncontrollable tremors vibrating along his limbs. Tears flood his eyes, roll down his cheeks, and splash onto his clothes. Whimpers bubble from his lips, tiny sobs and suppressed cries.

There is nothing within him but pain and anguish and shame. There is so much shame and regret that is kicking at his ribs and heart, trying to force its way up through his throat, out of his eyes and ears. It feels like his soul is attempting to rip itself from inside of him.

He never meant for this to happen. He never wanted it to happen and yet it has and there's nothing he can do about it. Nothing but weep and feel like a sack of shit. And that's exactly what he does—he sits in the chair at Adam's bedside, crying and feeling like a steaming bag of shit…

He sits there for a long while, crying into his hands. His mind reels with memories, arguments, laughter, intimate scenes they've shared. Every single moment they've spent together, and even the moments they haven't. His shoulders tremble violently and his tears are relentless.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles quietly, slowly lifting his head to stare at Adam's sleeping form. He's somewhat pale, deathly-looking but just as beautiful… "I'm sorry, Adam… I shouldn't… I… God…" He can't even finish a coherent sentence, and he hides his face in his arms on the edge of the hospital bed. This is his fault and he doesn't know how to make it better. He doesn't know how to change the circumstances and help Adam come back to reality. He wishes he knew… he wishes he knew anything… but he doesn't. He doesn't know what to do.

Lifting his head, he risks another glance at Adam. A glance at freckled lips, almond shaped eyes, midnight black hair with brown tips and a face both soft and round yet clearly defined by maturity and age. Freckled shoulders and a broad chest covered by a white shirt, tucked under a white cotton electrical blanket. It's set on a medium-low heat. He rests his hand over Adam's, finding it warm and soft. Like it had always been before.

He traces circles into the back of Adam's hand, the tears rolling still, but slower than before. Less of absolute anguish and more of just sadness. Complete and utter sadness. The pain is heavy in his heart and the guilt is like an anchor in the back of his mind, dragging him further into the depths of shame. But staring at Adam, at freckled arms and black hair, the pain eases a little.

If he imagines, for a moment, that they're not here, that they're not in a hospital room and that the only sound isn't the steady beeping of the heart monitor that Adam's connected to, if he imagines that they're home in Adam's condo, then the pain is a little lighter. It's not so bad this way, watching the rise and fall of Adam's chest and touching his hand and just picturing that the room at the edges of his vision is really their sitting room. Adam's on the couch, taking a nap. He's always so tired…

"Sir?" He lifts his head, glancing at Adam's doctor, and the momentary mirage is gone. "Visiting hours are over. I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave."

He nods slowly, glancing back at Adam. Standing, he gives Adam's hand a squeeze before leaning over, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I love you, Adam…" He whispers before pulling away.


	9. Eight

**[Eight]**

**Dark**

Sitting in silence, staring at his reflecting in the massive mirror, Adam takes a slow, graceful drink from the crystal bottle in his hand. His eyes are hard, burnt canary yellow with touches of gold around the pupils, and his skin is deathly pale, a strong contrast to his midnight-black hair. A malicious smile pulls the corners of his mouth upward, and he smirks at himself, the amber liquid swirling in the bottle as he sluggishly shifts in the leather chair.

There's no doubt that Adam is drunk again, even as he sloppily drink from the opening in the neck of the bottle, pearls of amber dripping down his chin. His vision blurs for a brief moment, but when he blinks the dizziness is gone and everything is suddenly normal again. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before glancing away from the bottle in his hand to the mirror. This time, though, instead of himself, he sees into the light, warm room with the neutral colors and the bookshelves, and his brown-haired blue-eyed twin gazing back at him with a china cup of tea in his hands.

Adam raises an eyebrow at his twin before drinking again. The alcohol burns along the walls of his mouth and throat, making a path down to his stomach. Tearing the bottle away from his lips, he licks them slowly, sighing at the taste that lingers there. Perhaps some might think that, after a while, the taste of alcohol would grow tiresome, even bland or foul. But not for Adam. He finds that the more he drinks, the more he needs, the more he craves. Like there's this void within his being that is forever unsatisfied no matter how much he has.

He looks back up at his counterpart in time to see a disapproving frown and a slow shake of the head. Scowling, Adam stands from his chair, rearing back before throwing the bottle at the mirror. Crystal shatters and amber sprays out, but the mirror itself remains intact. But Adam's twin is staring wide eyes at him, that that was all the yellow-eyed man wanted.

Snarling, he crosses towards the mirror, boots crunching the remains of the bottle into an even finer dust of crystal. "The fuck is your problem?" He shouts at the brunette. Though he knows his twin can't hear him, they're both masters at reading lips, having been separated by a sound-proof mirror for longer than they can remember.

Adam's twin shakes his head, and looks away again without so much as a word. Frustrated and a little more than pissed, Adam raises a gloved hand and slams his fist against the mirror. It trembles under his impact but, as before, doesn't break or crack in the slightest. His twin looks back up at him after nearly dropping his teacup.

"I said," he begins, this close to fuming. "What. The fuck. Is. Your. Problem?" He bares his teeth, growling deep from within his chest and the back of his throat, eyes blazing as he barely makes out his own reflection in the glass. He watches his twin's shoulders slump forward, an invisible gust of breath passing his lips before he, too, stands. Instead of breaking his cup, he sets it aside gingerly, almost fearful that the glass will shatter.

"My problem?" Adam's twin says, soundless, lips moving slowly as if tired. "Your incessant desire to get wasted and break everything."

Adam clenches his jaw. "And what about you, huh? Mr. I'm-Gonna-Fucking-Clean-Everything-Even-Thoug-I-Have-No-Fucking-Friends?" The twin raises an unkempt eyebrow.

"And you do?"

"Shut your fag mouth!"

"And you aren't?"

Clenching his jaw so tight he can hear his teeth cracking, Adam pushes away from the mirror, stomping around the room, searing for something—anything!—that he can either drink or smash. Or both. But the more he spins in circles, fuming at his twin's comebacks and really, really needing another drink, the angrier he gets. It's as if his stock as vanished and his breakable furniture is hiding from him. It's as if Karma is hiding from him what he needs, and the anger merely swells thick within him.

Adam turns on his heel and stared upon the glass bowl of aged and rotting fruit. A smirk twitches across his lips as his boots make heavy thuds on the floor. A gloved hand lashed out, fingers curling around the lip of the bowl, taking it into a firm grasp. It's heavy with the weight of mushy apples, wrinkled pomegranates and browned bananas, but he doesn't care. He turns and hurls it at the mirror, the glass shatter and the fruit splattering against the surface, smearing a purple-brown stain as it slides to the floor.

Adam's twin doesn't move, and he doesn't change his expression. Adam wants disgruntled, frustrated, annoyed, _anything_ that isn't _pity_!

Reaching down at a forgotten and still mostly whole pomegranate, Adam digs his nails into it, ripping it apart with both hands, red-purple juices coloring his fingers, smearing on his leather gloves, growling like an animal at his twin as he tears the fruit apart for his twin to see.

Still nothing. Nothing but pity. Nothing but an eternal lack of understanding and a heavy regret that he knows he'll never understand, and Adam chucks the pomegranate to the floor with a furious howl.


End file.
